


Control

by skylinehorizon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Graphic Description, Hell Flashbacks, Hell Trauma, Needles, Post-Hell Dean, Season/Series 04, Self-Harm, Torture, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylinehorizon/pseuds/skylinehorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's post-Hell and he's struggling with his memories from the Pit. He can’t suppress the urge for torture, and ends up self-mutilating to stop himself from lifting the blade on another person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> Please see additional tags for warnings for self-harm and depression, as well as anxieties and issues revolving around Dean's post-hell experience. Includes graphic descriptions of Hell torture (including needles). 
> 
> (Originally posted on LJ in April 2012)

The first time he does it, Dean is standing in a dark and dingy toilet in a seedy bar. He’s wasted and there’s an endless pit of numbness that’s clutching at his insides. Those dark years from the Pit are lurking behind shadows and cobwebs in his mind, and his skin has been itching. He’s wanted to slice at clean, sweet flesh. But he can’t, he can’t let himself  _be_ that. He’s the only victim he can bear to tear up.

So he slides the blade over his wrist and watches as the droplets begin to pool on his skin and then flow and drip and run over his tense arm. A few drop onto his shirt and he watches as the red grows darker, absorbed by the material.

He runs his arm under the water and feels the sting, takes a deep breath, and leaves.

***

Two weeks later and Sam catches a glimpse of the criss-cross of scars on Dean’s arms, new and old and itching and burning. He catches him by his sleeve and looks at him with an accusatory expression.

“Dean,” he says, that’s all he has to say, because Dean knows that tone and he can’t handle it, not now. He walks out of that motel room and into the cold night, ignoring Sam’s shouts and drives for miles into the darkness, the image of two black eyes glinting at him in the back of his mind.  

***

Dean has been spending more nights alone in motel rooms, and Sam has been spending more time (too much time) with Ruby. He’s pushed the blade a little too deep this time, and he’s watching the blood pour out of the wound, and pool onto the floor.  _This is it,_ he thinks, and closes his eyes against the pain.  _This is the end._

There’s a flutter of wings in the air and suddenly there’s a hand on his forehead and the wound is gone, pain-free and a clean, blank canvas as if the cut had never been there.

He looks up into bottomless, icy, blue eyes for ten seconds until he’s alone again.

***

Dean is suffocating, can feel acid pouring into open wounds and thumbs and fingers pressing into bleeding cuts. He tries to open his mouth, to scream, but his vocal cords have been severed straight through and only air and spluttered blood comes out.

The demon is leaning over him, waving the blade like a graceful butterfly through the air, taunting him and then pushing down against his stomach.

“Dean, you want this. I  _know_ you do,” he purrs, eyes black and bright. He can smell burning flesh, his own oozing blood and can hear Alistair’s laughter echoing along the walls as fine needles are inserted into the pads of his toes and fingertips.

Dean can feel hot breath against his ear, and then Alistair is laughing again.

He sits up in the darkness of his motel room, arms wrapped around his stomach and the smell of his own cut flesh still clinging to his nose. Sam is asleep in the other bed, and Dean runs to the bathroom, vomit burning his nose and mouth as he throws up his dirty insides.

***

Sam is standing over Dean, his arms crossed over his chest. Dean is trying to avoid his gaze and takes careful sips of his whiskey.

“Talk,” Sam says, and Dean looks up at him with a pleading expression.  _Don’t make me, Sammy. Please._

Sam sighs and sits down beside him on the bed. “Seriously, man. This isn’t going to get better unless you talk about it. I’m worried about you.”

Dean finishes off his glass in one quick gulp and then slams it down on the bedside cabinet. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt and takes a deep breath, steadying himself. His arms begin to itch. “I can’t shake it, Sammy. It follows me everywhere.”

Sam studies him for a long moment. “What does?”

Dean catches his eye and says, “Hell.”

Sam runs a hand over his face and lets out a slow breath. “You’re not there, anymore. You don’t need to hurt yourself, Dean. You don’t need that.”

“I miss it,” Dean says quiet, almost too quiet, but Sam catches it and looks at him as if he had just admitted murder. But Dean knows he’s done worse, much worse, and now he’s started speaking he can’t stop. He wish he could but he needs the release, needs to get out the words that have been gnawing at his insides. “I miss the control. I want to hurt people so  _badly_ , sometimes. I can’t let myself do that. I can’t.”

Sam is nodding, gulping, and looking away with watery eyes.

Dean looks away, runs a hand absently over his arms. “It’s the only way I can control it,” he says, barely a whisper.

And then Sam’s arms are around him, pulling him tight, and at first Dean is tense, wants to get away. He’s doesn’t like being confined like this, it reminds him of the darkness and the Pit and the  _coffin,_ but he lets himself be held for a few seconds before pulling away.

Sam’s hands are on his wrists and he freezes, tries pleading with his eyes again, but Sam isn’t looking at him. He gently lifts the sleeve up on Dean’s left arm and stares at it. Dean has to look away, doesn’t want to see the disappointment and anxiety in Sam’s eyes. He’s knows he’s fucked up, knows it like he knows anything, knows there’s something wrong with him, like a monster inside trying to claw its way out.

Sam’s fingertips are lightly tracing over his cuts and scars and Dean feels a shiver run through him. He feels too vulnerable.

“Promise me, Dean. You’ve got to stop this. You’ve got to.”

Dean looks up at him and sees the pleading in Sam’s eyes, and he doesn’t know if it’s something he can agree to. Dean wants to scream at him, tell him to mind his own business, tell him to stop screwing the demon, tell him to just become his brother again. But he stays silent, gives a little nod of his head, and Sam pulls back, relieved.

Later that night, when Sam is out and Dean is alone in the dark motel room, he lets the blade meet flesh again and lets out his own breath of relief. It’s already a broken promise, but it’s something he has to do. It’s the only thing he knows how to control.  


End file.
